


And If I Believe You

by Wandamaixmoff



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Miss Congeniality Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, FBI!Jon, FBI!Sansa, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Past Abuse, Ramsay is His Own Warning, it's pretty dark in chap 1 but it will get fluffier i promise, look here is another AU literally no-one asked for!, please be patient with me this is my first wip EVER
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 19:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17873783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wandamaixmoff/pseuds/Wandamaixmoff
Summary: Sansa blows some frizzy strands of hair out of her eyes and angrily chews her food. Dressed in a hoody, khaki green cargo pants and her favourite, well-worn pair of sneakers, she isn’t here to make friends. Her ensemble allows for her to strap her Glock to her ankle for easy access in the event things turn sour. And they always turn sour, at least in her experience.. . .A Jonsa Miss Congeniality AU





	And If I Believe You

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the 1975's 'If I Believe You' which is one of my favourite songs ever. Please listen to it! 
> 
> All mistakes are my own, I may try and find a beta one day lmao.
> 
> Also, Sansa has flashbacks to Ramsay in this, nothing too serious but please understand that there is a past abuse tag for a reason. ♡

_Tonight is the night_ ,  _tonight is the night,_ echoes through her head.

 

Sansa stares at the same five words on the page in front of her, making sure that the book nearly covers her entire face. She aims the tiny, built-in camera on the spine of the book carefully towards the suspects, making sure that nothing could be missed. Spearing some overcooked chicken onto her fork, she listens intently to the three British men two tables over from her.

 

Jon had thought it funny to fit the book with Bradley Gerstman’s _What Men Want_ on the cover before the sting operation that night. Alone at the gun range, her favourite place to hide since _him_ , Jon had casually leaned against the shooting booth and watched patiently as she expertly emptied a round into the target.

 

“Remind me not to get on your bad side, Stark,” Jon had grinned, sliding his ear muffs down his neck. Sansa rolled her eyes fondly as she took off her own ear muffs.

 

“What are you doing down here, Jon?” Sansa tried to subtly lean around him to see what he had hidden behind his back.

 

“I wanted to personally give you the tech you’ll be using tonight,” he said, revealing the book.

 

Sansa took one look at the cover and glared at him. When she made no move to take it from his hands, Jon slid it across the shooting booth table towards her and tapped the little lens for the camera on the spine.

 

“You just point and shoot.”

 

“Is this your way of not getting on my bad side?” Sansa had asked, her brow arched.

 

“You never know,” he smiled. “You might learn a thing or two.”

 

 _At least it provides a good cover_ , Sansa begrudgingly admits, with no man in the restaurant making eye contact with her for longer than five seconds. Sansa blows some frizzy strands of hair out of her eyes and angrily chews her bone-dry chicken. Dressed in a hoody, khaki green cargo pants and her favourite, well-worn pair of sneakers, Sansa isn’t here to make friends. Her ensemble allows for her to strap her Glock to her ankle for easy access in the event things turn sour. And things always go sour, at least in her experience.

 

 _Tonight is the night_. Sansa can’t fight the nervous energy that makes her foot bounce underneath her table booth. This arrest has been years in the making. Convincing Special Agent-in-Charge Mormont to let her in on the job had taken months, his eyes eventually taking on that soft, pitying look.

 

“Will this finally get you to take your therapy sessions seriously?” He had asked, his bushy brow furrowed in concern.

 

“Yes sir, absolutely,” she responded quickly, making sure she didn’t clench her fists in victory.

 

Mormont’s respect for her dead father had always made her a soft spot for him. Would Ned Stark have cared that she had manipulated one of his oldest friends from the force to exact her revenge? She hopes he would have understood. She needed this, needed this as much as she needed to breathe. She had to see this through, once and for all.

 

“So far only the Frey’s have turned up,” Sansa whispers, loud enough that only Mormont and Robb would hear through her earpiece in the van parked outside the restaurant. A slight panic begins to overtake her body. _What if this op is a fail? What if he never turns up?_

 

“Patience is a virtue, Stark,” Robb says through the comms. Hearing her brother’s reassuring voice helps temper her nerves, but only slightly.

 

“Tollett, what have we got out the back?” Mormont’s voice comes crackling through Sansa’s earpiece.

 

“All clear here, sir.”

 

“And you, Snow, what have you got?”

 

Jon is stationed outside the restaurant posing as a homeless man with scraggly hair and an overgrown beard. Unluckily for him, it's pouring rain.

 

“Returnable cans and the beginnings of hypothermia, sir,” comes his reply. “I’m nearly up to 75 cents, though.”

 

“Look on the bright side, mate,” Robb says. She can tell he is grinning. “You’re well on your way to getting that leg-lengthening surgery you won’t stop talking about.”

 

Sansa hides her smile behind a sip of coffee. Before Jon has a chance to reply, Robb’s voice again crackles through her earpiece.

 

“Hey, hey, we’ve got a cab pulling up outside.”

 

Sansa does her best not to perk up, trying subtly to get a better glimpse of the entrance of the restaurant. Two men are ushered in by the waiter, their rain-drenched coats taken off them. She doesn’t have to wait long to see who it is. Roose Bolton.

 

Sansa buries her head back into the book and mentally wills her heartbeat to slow. _Tonight is the night_.

 

Bolton goes to the three British men and shakes their hands, greeting them with a heavy Russian accent. Sansa studies his face over the book. She knew what the man looked like from the thick FBI file she had read cover-to-cover, but she had expected to see more of a resemblance of _him_. The only feature they share is their icy blue eyes that sends shivers down her spine.

 

The man accompanying Bolton adjusts his suit jacket and Sansa immediately zeroes in on his shoulder holsters, each containing their own handgun.

 

“Heavily packing,” she whispers. Each agent gives their affirmation that they had received her assessment.

 

Bolton makes himself comfortable and helps himself to the peanuts at the table. The men joke around for a moment until eventually one of the Brits takes out a briefcase, clicking the latches open. Sansa makes sure that the camera catches the glimpse of money neatly stacked within. Bolton takes a moment to survey the contents and then breaks out into a wide, cold smile and Sansa’s breath hitches. Her heart drops into her stomach and she is so overcome with dread, fear and, distressingly, longing, that she immediately has to look away.

 

 _He is too like him, that smile, those eyes_ …

 

Sansa’s thoughts begin to tailspin out of control and her breathing becomes ragged and uneven. She forces herself to breathe deeply through her nose and out her mouth as quietly as possible so that Mormont and the agents won’t hear her panic attack through the earpiece.

 

When she looks up, she sees Jon through the glass in the pouring rain with that ridiculous wig on and the question in his eyes; _you okay?_ Sansa nods imperceptibly and turns away before she sees the pity that will inevitably tinge Jon’s eyes. She doesn’t want to see that right now. Even though Jon has seen her at her worst and never judged her, a needling fear deep within her doesn’t want him to think of her as some broken doll. She made a promise to herself to never be at a man’s mercy again and she intends to keep it.

 

Sansa steels herself and focuses her attention on Bolton again. In the moments she had taken to collect herself, the hard drive with the shipment details of drugs must have been exchanged because Mormont’s commanding voice now orders the agents to get into position. Feigning a stretch, Sansa stands up and turns away from the men, putting her leg up on the booth seat. Leaning down, she quietly unlatches her Glock. She doesn’t have to wait long until Robb, Jon and Mormont storm from the front and Tollett comes through the kitchen. Sansa spins around and points her gun straight at Bolton’s stunned face.

 

She distantly hears Mormont ordering everyone to drop their guns and sees the other patrons of the restaurant being escorted out through the kitchen by Tollett. The blood rushing through her ears washes everyone but Bolton out. She slowly steps toward him as he rises from his seat with his arms raised. Bolton’s eyes flash with recognition and he begins to smile that same cold, unnerving smile at her. Sansa grips her Glock tighter, her every nerve screaming at her to shoot, to run, she doesn’t know anymore. In some distant part of her mind, she sees Jon, holding a shotgun, come closer to her as if to disturb the grip Bolton has over her.

 

“Ah, Sansa. I wasn’t sure if I would ever have the pleasure to meet my almost daughter-in-law,” Bolton drawls, casually leaning down to grab a fistful of peanuts. “I must admit,” Bolton continues as he eyes her up and down, “you have let yourself go a bit, my dear.”

 

Sansa feels rooted to the spot in the face of his calm disinterest as he begins chewing the peanuts mockingly. It feels like a lifetime passes between them and even though Sansa is the one with a gun pointed straight at his head, she feels herself losing to Bolton.

 

“Enough,” Jon growls. Bolton breaks eye contact with her and she feels like she can finally breathe again. Jon’s voice takes on a mocking tone. “Speaking of letting go, you’ve gotten real sloppy as of late, Bolton.” He nods at the wads of cash still in the suitcase on the table.

 

Bolton’s upper lip begins to curl and Sansa silently thanks Jon for allowing her the time to get a grip over herself again. Mormont and Robb are inching over to the British businessmen to make their arrest. The nerves inside Sansa begin to still as she realises, _we’ve got you, and you’re going away for a long time_. Before she can begin to bask in her victory, however, Bolton begins making a strange gurgling sound in the back of his throat. She watches in horror as the man who has haunted her dreams for months doubles over, clutching at his throat, as he chokes on a _peanut_.

 

“Sir,” Sansa trails off, silently asking Mormont for permission for her to approach.

 

“Nobody go near him, he’s still armed and dangerous,” Mormont commands, but Sansa is overcome by blinding rage. She is not going to watch the man who has orchestrated so much pain and hurt in her life to choke to death.

 

“Sir,” she repeats, her anger and desperation giving an edge to her voice. “He deserves a lifetime of prison, not to choke out on a peanut!”

 

“Stark!” Sansa can see Mormont in her periphery look over at her sharply. “Do not approach him!”

 

Bolton’s henchman starts to reach into his jacket in the chaos as his boss scratches at his throat, his face turning red.

 

“Don’t even think of it,” Robb growls, pointing his gun towards the henchman and away from the businessmen. Bolton leans heavily against the table and begins to collapse.

 

 _You don’t get to go out this way, you arsehole_ , rings through Sansa’s head as she angrily holsters her gun and steps towards Bolton.

 

“Stark!” Mormont yells at her.

 

Sansa’s nerves are screaming at her to stop but instead she grabs Bolton around his waist and begins squeezing. Bolton, one hand clutching his throat and the other gripping the table, heaves against her. Quick as lightning, he spits out the peanut, grabs a steak knife off the table, turns Sansa around and holds the cold edge against her throat. Bolton grabs his gun from his jacket and points it at anyone within five feet of him. Sansa struggles against his arm that has locked her in place with surprising strength and she feels sticky, hot blood trickle down her neck.

 

“No!” She thinks she hears Robb scream, but then a deafening noise makes her flinch away from Bolton’s hand holding the gun.

 

Everything blurs as she sees her brother go down, blood spurting from a bullet hole in his shoulder. Blinding rage spurs Sansa into action, her fingers gripping the hard edge of the knife to turn it away from her throat, fresh blood dripping between her fingers. Bolton’s henchman opens fire and Sansa distantly thinks she sees Jon and Mormont duck for cover. She hears gunfire all around her but all she can think of is _Robb, Robb, Robb_.

 

Before Bolton has a chance to stop her, Sansa elbows him in the stomach, stomps on his right foot with all her strength and throws back her head to catch him in the nose. A stab of pain shoots through her from the crown of her head but she ignores it as she wrestles the gun from Bolton. Sansa spins, wrenching it from his grip with her whole body weight behind her and roundhouse kicks him to the gut. Bolton falls backwards and takes his henchman with him. The businessmen are cowering behind the bar and had tried to make a run for it through the kitchens, but Jon had cut them off.

 

Sansa, blood dripping down her arm from her left hand, points the gun straight at Bolton, who smiles up at her through bloodied teeth. She looks into those cold blue eyes, so like _his_ , that red hot rage courses through her body. Her arm twitches with tension as she begins to squeeze the trigger.

 

It is only Robb’s tortured groan of pain behind her that brings her to her senses. Gripping the gun, she knocks Bolton across the face. Jon and Edd have already handcuffed the businessmen and Bolton’s henchman. Sansa claps the handcuffs on Bolton as tight as possible and looks over at Robb, collapsed against the wall with Mormont leaning over him, radioing the paramedics.

 

“Go.”

 

Sansa looks behind her as Jon stands over Bolton and gently nods his head in Robb’s direction. Sansa, knowing that Bolton isn’t going anywhere this time, rushes to her brother’s side, skidding her knees a bit across the tiles in her haste.

 

Robb’s face has drained of colour and his pale face and mop of red curls are in such a stark contrast that Sansa can’t help but hold his hand with all her strength. She realises that her left hand is bleeding all over him and begins to pull away but Robb squeezes back ever so slightly, stilling her. Sweat is dripping from his temple, and Sansa gently runs her other hand across his pasty cheek. She can’t stop herself from looking at all the blood that has stained his clothes from his shoulder and is starting to pool slightly beneath him. She’s not sure if the bullet made an exit wound or not.

 

“Hey,” she gently lifts Robb’s head so she can look into his eyes. Her breath hitches slightly, and, without her permission, her bottom lip begins to tremble ever so slightly.

 

“You’re going to be fine, yeah? You’re going to be fine,” she whispers, feeling her eyes prick with tears. Guilt chokes off whatever else she wanted to say. Robb looks into her eyes and slowly gives her a lop-sided grin.

 

“Frowning’ll give you wrinkles, Sans,” he whispers shakily.

 

Sansa lets out an ugly, wet sob at his terrible humour and shakes her head, her loose strands of hair sticking to her tear-stained cheeks. She leans forward and presses her forehead to his gently and hears the wail of a siren in the distance.

 

. . .

 

It is still raining nearly half an hour later, the water smacking loudly against the dirty concrete outside the restaurant. Sansa stands at the entrance of the restaurant and watches as her brother is wheeled into the back of an ambulance, thumbing the white bandages wrapped around her left hand.

 

They had only needed a small patch to cover the shallow cut on her neck. She had been lucky. The poor paramedic that had dressed her hand wound, however, couldn’t get her to stay still for longer than a few seconds, always wanting to be near Robb, to feel his pulse, to make sure he was going to make it. Eventually, Jon had sat next to her and had held her other hand tightly to distract her. It had worked.

 

“Don’t worry about me, Sans,” Robb had smiled at her from the stretcher. He was halfway into the ambulance and Sansa hadn’t bothered to shield herself from the rain to stay near him. “A box of chocolates and we’ll be even.”

 

Sansa had opened her mouth to speak but then Robb winced in pain, stopping her train of thought. She made a move to get into the ambulance as well but a strong hand on her shoulder had stilled her. Sansa knew who it was without looking.

 

“Get yourself home, Agent,” Mormont said in a tone that brooked no argument. “He’s in good hands now and he won’t heal any quicker with you fretting over him.”

 

“Sir,” Sansa had sighed and moved back under the rickety covering of the restaurant. Robb, now fully within the ambulance, smiles weakly at her and then the doors slam shut. Mormont slaps the back of the vehicle and she can’t bring herself to tear her eyes away as it starts to drive away.

 

Sansa is soaked to the bone and a shiver engulfs her body. A warm jacket is slung over her shoulders and Sansa looks up in surprise. Jon stands next to her, hands in his pockets, and watches the ambulance finally disappear from view with her. He’s discarded his wig and beard and looks absolutely wrecked.

 

“It’s all my fault.”

 

Her hands tug violently at her bandages.

 

“You made a choice,” Jon says, his voice strong. “It was the wrong one, but…”

 

He trails off and turns to face her. His warm brown eyes, filled with concern, seek hers out.

“There’s nothing that can be done now,” he finishes finally, shaking his head.

 

 Sansa can’t maintain eye contact with him because he makes it so damn _easy_. She made a near-fatal error for a member on her team and here Jon is, standing next to her, and offering her whatever comfort he can. Sansa looks down at her bandages, her vision blurring with tears, and she closes her eyes so that they trail down her cheeks.

 

She had thought she was strong enough. She had thought she would be able to confront Bolton and keep her cool. Now her brother is in the hospital and it was sheer, dumb luck that the bullet had gone through him and he hadn’t lost too much blood. Sansa purses her lips tightly and swallows the sob that wants to escape her chest as she grasps that she _failed_. She failed Mormont, Jon, and most importantly Robb. Pure guilt courses through her body, making her blood hot and her skin itch. She feels Jon put a comforting hand on her back, feeling like a burning brand on her skin through her layers, and she _can’t take this anymore, can’t take anymore goddamn pity_.

 

She steps brusquely away from Jon and shrugs out of his FBI jacket. She sees a flash of hurt flicker across his face as she roughly hands it back to him. She can’t look at him at the moment.

 

“See you tomorrow,” she murmurs, already turning away.

 

“Sansa, wait,” Jon says behind her, but she’s already across the street, disappearing from the newest scene of her long list of failures.

 

. . .

 

Sansa blasts the radio as loud as she can without waking her neighbours up, which isn’t nearly as loud as she wants to, as she repeatedly rams her fist into the punching bag. She doesn’t know how long she’s been here, but she realises in some distant part of her brain that her left hand is seeping blood again, droplets smearing on the wood floor of her apartment.

 

_“Oh, Sansa, sweetie. Did you really think I loved you?” he asks, a look of such disbelief on his face that she feels her heart break all over again._

 

She punches the bag with all her strength, pain rippling up her arm.

 

_A face she had thought she had known as well as her own kisses away her tears and she struggles against the bindings that tie her to a chair. She looks at him so much hatred she feels her body vibrating with it._

_“Tsk, tsk, love. Why couldn’t you have just stopped digging? We could be choosing a wedding cake if you hadn’t done this to us.”_

_Her engagement ring bites into her finger as she struggles to hurt him, to get away from him, she doesn’t know. She just wants to curl up into a ball and pretend that everything was how it once was._

Her left hand hits the bag and blood smears across its side in a gruesome streak.

 

_The bullet hits her in the stomach, knocking her onto the floor. She barely registers that she landed on her right arm because pure agony erupts from her gut. She distantly hears two more gunshots as she struggles to breathe through the pain. She sees him collapse on the floor beside her, his gun spinning out between them, blood pooling around his neck. Sansa, too delirious from the pain, forgets his betrayal as she sees the flicker of fear pass across his face. His blue eyes find hers and she thinks she screams through the rope between her teeth._

_Ramsay._

_She needs to get to Ramsay. She needs to help him, she needs to hold him._

_She loves him._

_Her eyelids become heavier, she watches as Ramsay’s eyes glaze over, and she loses her will to fight. Someone is screaming in her ear, but she can’t hear them. She closes her eyes._

Sansa holds the punching bag still as she sobs into the tough material. The tears flow freely, and her chest is wracked with all-consuming heaves. Collapsing onto the ground, Sansa slowly crawls over to the radio to turn the volume up so she can weep for all she lost in secrecy.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise it will get fluffier! Kudos and comments will help me update quicker (I'm thirsty for validation, what else is new)! ♡♡♡


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